


There is [No] Sex in the Champagne Room

by WaterMe



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Basically a Rom-Com and I regret nothing, But not too slow don't worry, College Student Peter Parker, Dirty Talk, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Fuck FOSTA/SESTA, Glitter in Uncomfortable Places, Hand Jobs, Honestly who doesn't, Insecure Wade Wilson, M/M, Michelle Jones (but only if you squint), Pansexual Wade Wilson, Peter Parker is a Mess, Secret Identity - Double Trouble edition, Slow Burn, Spider-Man Identity Reveal, Stripper AU, Stripper Peter Parker, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Switch Wade Wilson, Wade "Danger" Wilson, aw Doombots no, but only a little he just gets shy around pretty boys, die mad over it, everyone knows their way around a trachea, light non-monogamy, no beta we die like men, oh no suddenly feelings, positive depiction of sex work, soft spideypool, switch peter parker, there is definitely sex in the champagne room, they're both just sluts okay, which means a tiny bit of het
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:27:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22610983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterMe/pseuds/WaterMe
Summary: Bambi is a stripper with an ass of gold.Wade is a big personality with a wallet to match.And Spider-Man? Spider-Man's just looking for a friend.****A soft Spideypool stripper AU, because we deserve nice things in this life.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson, Peter Parker/Wade Wilson/Other(s)
Comments: 249
Kudos: 850





	1. Love in this Club

**Author's Note:**

> Soundtrack: [Bambi's Bootylicious Mixtape](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7yycn849v5iN2jViE1FC9s) on Spotify. Don't read too much into it, just hit shuffle - it's just a bunch of songs I'm jamming on while I write this and think about pole tricks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: Dang, I just want to read SpideyPool fucking in the champagne room.  
> Nobody:  
> Literally no one:  
> Author: *writes 14,000 words of awkward flirting*
> 
> This fic is dedicated to Tom Holland's performance of ["Umbrella,"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1i5DEipIWh4) thank you gay jesus for the gifts you bestow upon us.

* * *

Wade Wilson is 100% in love. 

Smitten. Verified Twitterpated (✔️). Catching Feelings with a prognosis of Lifelong Commitment.

“Weasel,” he hisses, practically in hysterics. “Weasel, my friend. My platonic Wincest. How could you keep the existence of such perfection from me? You need to tell me _everything_ about the father of my future children.”

Weasel’s eyes audibly roll as he sloshes out a row of obscenely colorful shots for the bachelorette party having kittens in front of him. “He usually works afternoons, you’re usually here nights, and if you creep him out I swear to god I’ll subject you to a post-labor abortion. I need him happy, he’s a top earner.”

Wade squeals. “All that and he’s a _top?_ Weas... Am I actually dead right now??”

“You will be if you scare him off,” Weasel says. “Whatever, man. Just keep that moldy baguette you call a dick away from my sweet princess.”

Wade turns back towards the object of his affections.

_Bambi._

The mesh-clad reverie undulating on stage is fantasy brought to life. He sticks to the pole with the barest touch of his fingertips; elegant, opulent lines explode into raw athleticism as he spins and inverts.

He’s beauty. He’s danger. Wade wants to lick the lean line of muscle along his spine and call him a naughty boy and pay off his student loans. 

And the guy can work a crowd. Pole tricks ain’t shit if you can’t hustle, but the dollars are raining down as he reads the rail like a cheap tabloid. He peers coyly through his eyelashes at a schmuck with a terrible comb-over, before giving the bachelorette a cheeky, boy-next-door grin that would put Captain America to shame. Flexes perfect abs just so at a disinterested couple, does a few easy push-ups that have them drooling.

His bold eyes meet Wade’s across the room. Tilts his head, gives him a slow, considering once-over. Eyes glued to Wade’s crotch, he bites his lip. 

Hard.

Wade finds himself needing to sit down very quickly.

He lost a lot of blood today, okay? Getting that erect that fast isn’t doctor recommended.

* * *

For the next hour, Wade is the most respectful Deadpool a Deadpool can be. He doesn’t follow Bambi’s every move like some weird stalker. He does not count how many people Bambi entices back to the VIP room. He isn’t the slightest bit familiar with the flex of Bambi’s throat as he tips his head to throw back a drink. He _certainly_ does not have a brand new kill list comprised of all the dumb fucks who dare to refuse Bambi’s advances

Wade is so fucked.

“I am so fucked,” he whispers to the sticky tabletop. In a rare attempt at self-preservation, his forehead has decided to make fast friends with the petri dish disguised as a table.

“Hopefully in a good way?” Wade nearly jumps out of his skin at the throaty voice beside him. Pressing harder against the table, he slowly rotates until his temple is glued to the peeling plastic.

Big, beautiful, brown Bambi eyes are peering back at him.

Bambi’s got his arms crossed on the table, chin hooked over strong forearms, dark eyes scrutinizing Wade. His lips quirk. He speaks again, voice just a shade deeper than Wade was expecting. “Deep thoughts?”

Holy shitsnacks, are those _dimples???_

Wade is actually going to die, for realsies this time. Not a bad way to go. He physically and emotionally peels himself off the table. Does his best attempt at a charming grin. “I was just wondering if your ass was forged by Sauron? Cause that shit looks precious.”

“Well,” Bambi grins back, bright as a new penny, “I don’t know if it’s a magic ring,” oh, he _went_ _there,_ “but it _has_ been known to cast ‘Petrificus Totalus,’ if you know what I mean." He languidly pushes himself up and back against the booth.

Wade can’t break eye contact. It’s getting creepy. It’s past creepy. Oh my god someone just slap him already, no, wait, _shit,_ that thought did not help. After literal eons of awkward eye-gazing, Bambi takes mercy on him and flicks his gaze away. Wade sags in his seat.

“You’re Wade, right? The night crew talks about you sometimes.” Wade rubs the back of his neck self-consciously, pulling at the hood of his sweatshirt. “Nothing bad, don’t worry! They said you’re funny. Heavy tipper. You don’t get handsy.” Bambi shrugs, shoulder loose. “Figured I’d see what all the fuss is about. Plus Belladonna says you’re, and I quote, ‘ribbed for her pleasure,’ which is super problematic, but I gotta admit, I crack up every time I remember it.”

Wade chokes a little. “You give every customer a sneak peek into the dressing room gossip?”

“Naw man, I’m not a dumbass. But you seem like the type who likes it straight.” Wade almost chokes again. Bambi’s face is innocent. Almost _too_ innocent. That little trolling shit.

“You can give it to me straight any day of the week, dangernoodle. Unrealistic role-play is totally my kink. Just give me a little warning so I can clean out the pipes and throw on some pearls.” Bambi actually laughs out loud at that, and Wade feels illogically like he’s passed some sort of test.

“Maybe a raincheck on that, but if you want a ridiculously heterosexual lapdance I promise I’ll say ‘no homo’ before we start.”

Wade does want. He _really, really_ wants. He wants the ridiculously heterosexual lapdance, and he wants the queer-as-hell lapdance even more.

 _Shit._ He wants it too much. If he gets this soft, perfect angel up all up in his business, he’s gonna make it weird. Or even fucking worse, it will go well, and this infestation of infatuation will turn terminal and actually, literally kill him. 

He opens his mouth, hesitates. “That’s sweet, baby boy, but I’m not gonna make your ass play firefighter to this trashfire of a bod.”

Bambi shrugs again, easy and unbothered. “I’m Gen Z, we kink on disaster. But I’m not gonna push - if you change your mind, you know where to find me.” He pushes out of the booth, then looks back, eyes appraising. Leans back in, cheek almost touching Wade’s, the ghost of a nuzzle. He smells good. Really good. Clean sweat and Old Spice and fruity body spray.

“Thanks for the chat.” Wade shivers as Bambi’s hot breath brushes up his neck, over his ear. “Night crew’s right - you’re real sweet.” 

And then he’s gone. Screaming internally, Wade adds his own name to the ‘Turned Down Bambi, Too Stupid to Live’ list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The author: “Wait, if Wade just says ‘yes’ to the lap dance, we can cut out three whole chapters and skip to the sex...” *screams in artistic masochism*
> 
> The good news is that future readers can use this as a Choose Your Own Adventure - If Wade turns down the lapdance, turn to chapter 2! If he says yes, turn to chapter 5!
> 
> I hope you like it so far - This is the first fanfic I’ve written since I was a wee babe learning about the birds, the bees, and buttstuff on fanfiction.net. Pls throw me kudos and comments like Wade throws two-dollar bills at Bambi. Because we all know he tipped heavy once he was able to move.  
> 


	2. Scorpio, you’re gonna die fucking (Oh yeahhh)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm, I wonder if anyone interesting might show up in this chapter...
> 
> ([Bambi's Bootylicious Champagne Room Mixtape](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7yycn849v5iN2jViE1FC9s) if you want some mood music!)

Two days later, Wade just happens to find himself in the neighborhood of Sister Margaret’s School for Wayward Girls Gone Wild. Total coincidence. Almost as much of a coincidence as that time he just happened to notice the upcoming week’s stage schedule behind the bar. Which just happened to be unattended because Weasel just _happened_ to be putting out a fire in a trash can in the bathroom Wade had recently exited. Theoretically speaking. Funny old thing, life, right?

He sidles up to the bar, subtle as an Iron Man dildo at a DC orgy. Weasel gives him a flat look. “Please don’t use my bar as your personal Sea Captain Date. Your Hurricane Katrina of a face will scare off my precious cash kittens.”

Wade crosses his arms, offended. “I’ll have you know, your honey bunches of cashflow love me. Apparently I have met the low, low bar of ‘not getting handsy.’ And I’m clearly using your bar as my personal Moonit - my passionate Scorpio heart needs a fearless, fiery Leo.” 

Weasel scoffs, and Wade takes the sound as enthusiastic consent to continue waxing poetic. “Online dating just isn’t the same since I got kicked off Mullet Passions for catfishing. I’ll have you know I was _not_ the only one on there wearing extensions.”

“Aren’t Leo and Scorpio, like, _super_ incompatible?” Wade startles and turns to see Bambi poured against the bar. That kid is sneaky as hell, although Wade notes that he’s traded platforms for Converse today, which is totally cheating. Just like the vast expanse of thigh under those Daisy Dukes is cheating. And that smokey eyeliner is cheating. Ugh, what an unfair snack of a human.

Still, Wade is delighted, and not just because we’re apparently using MCU birthdays. If this was the comics he’d be stuck with a Virgo, and this fic is _not_ tagged deflowering. “No way, Simba, that’s just what the astrology mafia wants you to think. Scorpio and Leo are both strong personalities. With the right people you get the ultimate power couple. Anyway, I’m right on the cusp of spontaneous Sag, so if you know an adventurous lion looking for a loud man horse, I’m in the market!”

Their little astrology twins Moment is interrupted by Weasel clearing his throat. Rude.

“Bambi, this guy bothering you? You don’t gotta talk to him if you don’t want to. It’s bad for business if you go full exorcist. No one is here for Roman showers.”

Wade sighs. “I mean, I wasn’t going to come back, but I figured he might not get enough ugly creeps on the dayshift.”

“Oh you don’t gotta worry about me,” says Bambi, with a shit-eating grin. “Weasel’s always here to help me meet my ugly creep quota.”

Weasel narrows his eyes. “Your funeral. But just so you know, his dick looks like that Jesus-freak cucumber from Veggietales listened to too much Alice Cooper.” He stomps to the back, his parting yell of “Don’t ask me how I know!” overlapping with Wade’s “And just how do you know?”

Wade’s eyes meet Bambi’s, and they snicker as soon as Weasel’s out of sight. Bambi leans back, elbows hitched up on the bar. “He’s a good guy. Keeps the place safe for us. Sorry he was giving you shit.”

Wade shrugs. “Any time that douchebag stops giving me shit, I drive him to the hospital.” He pauses for dramatic effect, then whispers, “Last time he was nice to me, it was _actually appendicitis._ ”

As they chat, a petite dancer skulks up to them. Wade idly wonders how much she would charge to suffocate him in the majestic, tangled floof of her deep burgundy hair. 

Her eyes slide right over Wade, and land square on Bambi. “Hey loser. You actually gonna get to work at some point?” She taps short black nails on the bar.

“There’s, like, no one here except for Wade.”

Suddenly, Wade is in her targets. He hasn’t been this scaroused (scared + aroused, natch) since Afghanistan. She snaps her gum.

“Wade, huh? Cherrybomb. Night crew says you have a dick like a Bad Dragon dildo.”

Wade… doesn’t really know what to say to that. Cherrybomb does not seem to require an answer. She turns back to Bambi.

“I need a ride to class tomorrow. You’re picking me up.” Bambi shoots her a horrified look and jerks his head in Wade’s direction. “Oh no, I’ve divulged your secret identity as one of the one million students in New York City.” Bambi looks like he wants to die. Wade is starting to wonder how Cherry and Bambi feel about polyamory.

“I’ve always thought it was great how passionate strippers are about higher education,” Wade states pleasantly.

“Here’s the thing,” she says, eyes piercing into his. This must be what it’s like to stare down a shark. “If you can figure out what his sketchy-as-hell ‘evening internship’ is, I have a sizable cash reward, and I’ll suck your weird Game of Thrones dick for free.”

“ _Cherry!!!”_ Bambi hisses. “It’s not sketchy, it’s just an NDA.”

Cherry ignores him. “Serious offer. The curiosity’s been killing me for years. Figure if it’s more embarrassing than stripping, it’s gotta be good.”

“It’s just a job,” Bambi mumbles, literally covering his face with his hands.

Her head jerks up, and she presses her lips together as she scans the room. “Looks like table 3 needs a little attention.” She turns on her heel, without saying goodbye.

“... Bambi?”

“Yes?”

“Does she need help with table 3?”

“Naw, she knows her way around a man’s trachea, you know what I mean?”

“Um. Does table 3 need help?”

“... Possibly.”

“Huh.” Wade says. “You think she’d find her way around _my_ trachea if I asked real nice?” They both blink for a long moment. Wade doesn’t know what Bambi’s imagining, but his own mind goes on a delightfully terrifying adventure involving Cherrybomb, Bambi, some cartoon railroad tracks, a hitachi magic wand, a length of piano wire, and, inexplicably, a rubber duck. Don't judge. The dick wants what the dick wants, okay?

* * *

It’s a slow afternoon. Bambi drifts out on the floor a few times, but he winds up back at Wade’s table more often than not. It’s… nice. Bambi’s funny as hell, with a sharp tongue and an eerie insight into St. Marg’s regular band of misfits. His scathing observations make Wade snort his drink more than once. And, well, the view's nice too. Almost distressingly nice, to be honest.

“Sooo…“ he drawls, curiosity finally getting the better of him. “Student?” 

Bambi looks up, bright and fake. “Yup!” He does not elaborate.

“Are we talking college, or?”

Bambi deflates a little, mutters, “Yeah, I’m in college.”

“Thank god, if it was elementary school I was going to have to go out back and put myself down.” Bambi laughs, shoulders relaxing the tiniest bit, so Wade pushes a teeeeeny bit more. “And the creepy nighttime side hustle?”

Bambi huffs. “It’s not creepy, and it’s not a side hustle. _This_ is the side hustle.” He sighs and continues, apparently resigning himself to throwing Wade a few crumbs. “The night gig is actually in my field, and it’s work I love doing. It’s… I get to feel like I’m really making a difference, you know? But of course it doesn’t pay for shit.”

Wade nods, as if he knows anything about higher education. “Ain’t that the way it always is? Passion doesn’t pay.” He conveniently ignores the fact that he loves his job. Telling sweet Bambi how great he is at killing people is mayyyyybe not second date material. 

He shifts gears and bats his eyes. “I’m surprised you didn’t major in having an absolutely amazing ass. ‘Cause you got enough natural talent to get a Master’s at least.”

“Naw, Great Ass is the kind of thing you minor in. Your major’s gotta be something more marketable, justify those student loans.”

“Ooh, like Dog Fashion!”

Bambi laughs. “Aw, you got me. What can I say? The canine textiles industry is really on its way up!" He glances at his watch. “Speaking of, I should take off. Gotta do a few things before the totally normal, not-at-all creepy night job.”

“Oh yeah,” Wade laughs, “Those chihuahuas are only one stomach flu away from their goal weight.” He pulls out some cash. 

“Oh! I can stick around if you wanna take me up on that dance.” Bambi’s ears go pink. Wade doesn’t read into it. He, too, gets sexually aroused by a fat, firm, thick (it’s a dick metaphor, we get it) stack of cash.

“I’m good,” says Wade, “but I took up all your time today.” Bambi looks at the bills, looks at Wade. His forehead creases the tiniest amount. “Seriously - I know how this works. Take the money.” 

“Oh, I got no problem taking your money. You want to pay me to hang out, I’ll take you up on it. It’s just…” he looks down again, looks to the side, suddenly blurts out, “I don’t do extras.” Bambi is living up to his name, eyes wide, a deer in the headlights. “I mean. If you want a dance, any time. But I don’t do escorting, or meet outside the club or anything.” 

Aw, fuck. “No, I didn’t mean -”

Bambi’s eyes are frantic. “No, I didn’t mean to imply that you… ugh. Except I did just imply. I literally implied. I’m fucking this up. I’m sorry. You seem really nice, and I like you a lot, and I just wanted to set expectations. I’ve had bad experiences, so if that was what you were after I wanted to let you know so we don’t waste each other’s time.”

“Bad experiences?” Wade’s gut thaws, just a fraction. “Anyone I need to kill?” 

Bambi forces a small smile. “Naw. Don’t get me wrong. Dudes can get _really_ shitty when they get rejected. But Cherry isn’t the only one who knows her way around a trachea. It just sucks to realize that some entitled douchebag thinks they pre-paid for something I didn’t sign up for.”

“I’m sorry. That _is_ shitty.”

Bambi shrugs. “Yeah. It’s just the biz. I’m pretty good about nipping it in the bud these days.” He looks at the money in his hand, then meets Wade’s eyes. “It goes both ways, you know. If I come just to hang out, you’re not obligated to drop a bunch of cash. I know you’re cool when I dip in and out. And I - it was nice. I like hanging out with you.”

Wade smiles, carefully. “Gotta take care of you, baby boy. Society needs your creative genius on ‘America’s Next Top Model, the Very Good Boy edition.’” 

Bambi blushes, grins so his dimples show. “You can take care of me as much as you want, big guy. See you next time.”

* * *

Wade's giddy as he leaves the club, but by the time he makes it home to suit up, his brain is doing a Thing. He’s crushing hard on Bambi, and that’s scary as hell because Bambi is just a nice kid who’s really good at his job.

The worst part is that Bambi wasn’t half wrong - Wade wasn’t pre-paying, but he was definitely flaunting his money a little. He gets off on taking care of people, and god knows no one’s fucked him for free in a hot minute. Maybe subconsciously he _was_ flagging for a more generous arrangement. 

Wade jerks his gloves on as if each finger has personally offended him.

Except it felt like Bambi actually liked him? Like he kept coming by to hang out and get a breather from the douchebags?

“Shut the fuck up, DP,” he mutters, yanking on his mask and flinging himself through the window and into the night. “That’s what all the fuckboys think. He was just bored.”

At least that barrel roll out the window was super cinematic.

He perks up a little when he spots his Favorite Neighborhood Spiderbooty swinging around in that kinky red and blue spandex. 

_He’d_ sure look great on a pole.

(ugh, just can’t dial down the stranger danger today)

Even their SpideyPool BFF Team-Up doesn’t go his way - the wannabe-of-the-week (who the hell thinks “The Boxing Bandit” is a cool villain name??) has some dumbass “Punch Cannon” and slams Spidey face first into the wall.

Wade’s heart clenches at the crunch of cheekbone against brick, which is obviously because he has professional courtesy for another mask, and not because of the big gay crush. At least Spidey is back up in a flash, webbing the douchebag up before Deadpool can turn him into a shishkabob. He silently pours one out at the missed opportunity for murder.

Spider-Man is swaying a little as he stands, and Wade approaches him with caution. “Webs? Hey buddy, you good?”

The snack-sized super shakes his head, then stumbles at the sharp movement. “I’ve had worse. I just gotta get home.”

“Can I take you home?”

“Yeah, you’d like that, ‘Pool. I’m good, though.” Even Spidey’s patented disapproving glare looks a little wobbly. Wade frowns.

"Okay, well, I swear I’m only 25% asking because I want to see the bed you masturbate in.” Spidey makes a small, offended sound that is definitely going in the spank bank for later perusal. “I am 75% concerned, as a friend, about your ability to get home safely.”

“I’m _fine._ "

“Pretty sure you’re concussed, good buddy.” Wade approaches slowly, hands held out. “Will you at least sit down for a little bit?”

Spider-Man hesitates. After a long moment, he gingerly nods. Wade sits him down and produces a bag of frozen peas from some pouch or another. Where _were_ those hiding?? Whatever, don’t question the magic comic book pouches.

“Hey, did I ever tell you about the time I put a live eel in Wolverine’s bed? And before you ask, it was _not_ the kind of eel you’re assuming!”

Wade regales him with tales of X-treme X-Mansion Pranks until he’s sure the healing factor has kicked in enough to put the Spiderbae on a train home.

* * *

The next time Wade drops in to St. Marg’s, Bambi isn’t there. “Oh yeah,” Weasel says. “He gets sick a lot. Calls in and rearranges his shifts. Probably ran face first in a pile of blow, if we’re being honest.” 

Wade’s gut twists. Shit. Did he spook Bambi?

I mean… what did he think was gonna happen? Big scary dude like Wade stalks his shift schedule, monopolizes his time, pushes for details about his personal life… Yeah, Bambi was nice about it, but he was probably scared half to death. The kid’s probably afraid to come to work, Christ. 

Fuck. Wade’s been acting like the kind of creep he usually gets paid to beat up. He sighs, resigning himself to keeping his distance. The strip club is Bambi’s turf, and he’s gonna respect that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh no wade, you just rolled a natural 20 on respect and a zero on perception
> 
> This chapter fought me a bit. It's hard to keep the strip club conversations natural, without devolving into small-talk purgatory. Chapters 2 and 3 have gone through more revisions than the rest of the fic combined!  
> 


	3. It's Character Developement, It Has To Go Somewhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers: We want Spideypool smut!  
> Author: We have Spideypool smut at home.  
> SpideyPool smut at home: This fucking chapter.
> 
> Warning for references to mild harassment of sex workers in this chapter (sadly, reality-canon-typical). Don't worry - everyone in this fantasy universe knows their way around a trachea, and the management is always on their side :-)
> 
> I put together a [Spotify mixtape](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7yycn849v5iN2jViE1FC9s) if you want to listen to some tunes that help me get into a headspace for this story.  
> 

Wade can’t avoid Sister Maggie’s forever, and a few days later he has to hit up the bar side to see a Man about a Job. Weasel gives him the deets. “By the way,” he mutters, glowering, “Bambi’s on today and told me that if you’re avoiding him you’d better get your ass in there. Personally, I suggest you take your ass out to the sidewalk, but it’s not like I _own this fucking place_ or anything.”

When he cautiously rounds the corner into the grungy neon paradise of the club, Bambi’s face lights up. His makeup is caked on a little thick today, covering dark circles under his eyes. He looks puffy. Actually sick, then.

“Hey snot-face,” Wade says with forced bravado. “I know you think I was awkwardly avoiding you, but actually you were just disgusting, and I’m too pretty to get the flu.” He leans in, poking at Bambi’s puffy cheek. “You need my magic get-better soup. Tumeric and ginger. Great for inflammation.”

Bambi screws up his face, pulls away. “Wait. Are you - are you a momfriend?”

Wade singsongs, “Gotta take good care of my brave boy when he’s not feeling good! But seriously. I’m bringing you soup. You can put it in the freezer for next time.” He leans closer, narrows his eyes. “You know, Bambi, when you’re sick you look like you get popped in the face.” 

“Yeah… I, uh, I get that a lot. It’s annoying as hell,” Bambi laughs nervously.

“Wait a sec…” The gears turn in Wade’s head. “I think I just guessed your secret job!” Bambi is very obviously avoiding eye contact now. “You’re a nanny!”

“A _nanny?”_ Bambi’s eyes shoot up, and he makes an offended noise that Wade is _definitely_ going to examine later in a personal time kind of way. For a moment he gets deja vu, but he figures it won’t be important for, like, three more chapters.

“Yeah! You get sick a lot, someone’s hitting you in the face, you’re doing something that makes the world a better place… obviously a nanny.”

“What kind of nanny works at night?”

“You tell me, bud, you’re the night nanny here.”

Bambi slouches in his seat, mindlessly shredding a napkin with long, graceful fingers. Smiles a little. “I’m really glad I didn’t chase you off.”

Wade nods, feeling awkward. “Yeah, I just wanted to give you your space. I don’t want to be that guy.”

“You’re not. I promise. I wasn’t kidding when I said I liked you.”

Wade looks down, bashful. “I, uh, yeah. You’re not so bad yourself, I guess. How’s the daily bump ‘n’ grind?”

Bambi shrugs and stretches like a cat, elongating the long, defined stretch of his abs. Wade’s eye twitches. “Afternoon shift is slow. Those Red Hat ladies got a few dances, but they’re about at budget. That business dude wants me, but can’t let his coworkers know.” 

Glancing across the room, Bambi’s face softens. Wade follows his eyeline to the man checking Bambi out with all the subtlety of a Republican senator. He’s obviously out for a ‘working lunch’ (work-it lunch?), and is so far in the closet he’s sucking Aslan’s cock. Bambi pulls a coy smile as he looks down, chews on his lip as he glances back up. Business Bro turns away quickly - and then jerks back for a quick peek. Bambi _smoulders_.

Turning away again, the guy leers at a pair of breasts with cartoonish lust, elbowing his coworker. Bambi instantly drops the ‘fuck me’ look and side-eyes Wade, cracking a grin. “See? I’m multitasking.”

Wade’s tone is conversational. “Baby boy, if you keep being this terrifyingly competent I’m going to come in my pants.”

“Yeah?” Bambi laughs. “You want me to make that worse?” His voice drops. “I’m, uh, pretty good at making things harder.”

Wade chokes up. “Naw, sweet pea, I’m not feeling up for a Phantom of the Opera roleplay today. I make an _excellent_ Christine Daaé, but I wouldn’t want to deny Closet Case his 7 minutes in heaven.”

Bambi huffs “aw,” but returns his sights to Fratty McFratPants. He narrows his eyes, taps his fingers against his lips.

“Yeah,” he says, eyes calculating. “Yeah, if I go back now, he’ll follow me.”

Wade shoots him finger guns. “Go get ‘em, Tiger!”

Bambi gives him an exaggerated wink, settling into character as he backs away. All it takes is a side-eye and a careless sway of his hips, and the dude is making his feeble excuses and falling over himself to get to the back rooms.

* * *

Things pick up a little after that. Wade watches with glee as Bambi manages to peel off not one, not two, but _three_ of the Office Frat Pack over the course of the next hour. He giggles to himself, imagining all of them stewing in the same mixture of repressed shame and Bambi’s sweat. Three bros, sitting in an office, five feet apart ‘cause they’re NOT GAY.

Before he can get too lost in his mental recitation of classic vines, Cherrybomb descends on him like a rain of bullets. She’s towing a quivering blonde dancer.

“Sit.” Cherry says to Wade. He sits. She tosses the dancer into his lap. “Stay,” she says. “You’re her cover.” She stalks off.

“Uh,” says Wade. “Hi, and also, sorry, _what.”_

The blonde tries to put on a sexy face, but it’s ruined when she starts to sniffle. Wade panics. “Hey hey hey, what’s wrong, sugar bear?”

“It’s fine,” mumbles the dancer. Paris? She looks like a Paris. Or maybe a Portia. Something with P. “Just some asshole. I got a bad vibe and so when he asked for a dance I said I couldn’t, I was already on my way to do one? And he kinda flipped out and grabbed me? But Cherry and Bambi saw and so they offered to do a double for him and Cherry brought me over here?”

And the Kill List gets another contestant! Wade sees Cherry approaching a scowling man and moves to stand up. 

Penelope wraps her arms around his neck, voice tinged with panic. “No, Cherry promised you’d stay with me!” Fuck. He’s not just gonna leave poor Pandora by herself. Not that he could - she’s constricting his neck like an anaconda. She whimpers, “I could, uh, I could give you a dance? While we wait?”

“As hot as I get over a pretty crying girl choking me out,” he wheezes, “maybe you can give me back my airways and we can just chat a little.” She squeaks in apology and sits back. Right on his cock. Christ. “Good job on the gut check, Pomegranate.”

Panorama tilts her head in confusion, before giving him a small, sly smile. “Yeah, I know how to spot it. I just got that kinda face - that type always goes for me. And then Cherry and Bambi go for _them.”_

Wade laughs. These crazy kids are like a pack of sensual hyenas. Although he’s wondering if he can get away with having a small chat with them about ‘personal safety’ and ‘leaving the intimidation tactics to the professionals.’ Cherrybomb might stab him in the dick a little for mansplaining, but he’ll take that hit if it keeps them safe. He wonders if he has a business card on him. (‘Deadpool: One Way Ticket to Pound Town’ - Wade likes a good multi-tool.)

He remembers there’s a pretty girl straddling him, and realizes he should probably stop fixating on office stationery. “That must be pretty scary, being the bait.”

She shrugs. “Bambi and Cherry are doing the scary part. I just have to look cute and anxious.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Parabola. You’re doing heavy lifting, poking the bears. It’s an important job. You feeling any better?”

“Yeah, just a little spooked, I’ll be fine.” She gives a little bounce, as if to prove she’s getting her spirit back. The little bounce makes Wade feel a little spirited, too. She leans forward, a cloud of blonde hair and spun vanilla sugar. “I’m not crying anymore,” she whispers. “Or choking you.”

Wade presses his hands very, very hard against the vinyl seat of the booth. Says hopefully, “We could change that?”

* * *

When Bambi and Cherry roll in, Wade gives the universally understood gesture of ‘I really don’t know how this happened, but now that it’s here I’m not complaining’ behind Pepperoni’s undulating back. The two delinquents crowd in on either side of the booth, neatly enveloping him in a wet dream surround-sound of perfume and menace. Paranormal, having gotten her groove back (and some of Wade’s, too), greets them cheerfully as she continues sharpening his dick like a pencil. “Everything good?”

Cherry smirks. It’s somehow even more terrifying than her deadpan. “Yeah, he got the message.” Bambi doesn’t say anything, but his aura is quietly smug. His eyes are soft and curious on Wade’s face.

“You three... oh, fuck... you three do this erotic vigilante thing often?” Wade just wants to feel included in the conversation, but Pagliacci is making it hard. (hey-o)

Bambi shrugs. “When we have to. The club’s starting to get a reputation for no-tolerance.” He’s still looking at Wade’s face. Wade's not sure on the etiquette here. Is it weirder to stare back, or to _not_ stare back? He settles for staring awkwardly at the area above Bambi's left shoulder. Nailed it.

“Thanks for keeping an eye out,” Cherry says quietly. “I was worried he might hassle her on his way out. Seriously, I owe you one.” It sounds like she’s… being nice to him. He really hopes it’s not appendicitis.

“Yeah, thanks, babe!” Pandemonium says, wriggling off him and over Bambi. “I’m gonna get back out there.”

He coughs. “Uh, anytime? Hey, wait a sex. A _sec._ Wait a _sec.”_ He presses some cash into her hand. “Take off early if you're still feeling shaky?”

“Oh!” she says, beaming. “Thanks! Bye, Wade!”

“Bye, Paradisio!”

Cherry and Bambi give each other a confused look over Wade’s head. “... did Delilah change her stage name?”

* * *

A few minutes later, Cherrybomb is slamming him against the booth in a table dance that she informs him he is going to accept, on the house, “or else.” Apparently when she said she owed him one, she meant _now._ He hasn’t been this afraid for his life since International Women’s Day. 

He gives Bambi a pleading look. Bambi just sips Wade's drink, watching him with that Mona Lisa smile. He mouths “go get ‘em, tiger” over Cherry’s shoulder. Wade thinks Bambi may be confused about the identity of the tiger in this relationship, as Cherry attempts to chew her way through his trapezius while putting her full body weight into the elbow digging into his pec.

“Help me, Bambi,” he whimpers. “I’m never going to be able to drink a Cherry Coke without popping a fear boner again.”

Bambi leans in close, and quirks an eyebrow. “You want her to stop?”

“I didn’t say that,” Wade gasps.

“Oh,” Bambi whispers, even closer, right in his ear, “You want me to _help,”_ and then his strong hand has Wade by the back of the neck, and he fucking _purrs._ It’s a low rumble that Wade did not know the human body was capable of producing, and he gets ASMR tingles so hard his legs go numb. He goes limp under Cherry's ministrations, pinned under Bambi's soft eyes and Cherry's sharp elbows.

* * *

After three more minutes of doing the fork in the garbage disposal (collateral damage to the plumbing included), Cherry swings her leg off him. “Good game,” she nods seriously, then wanders off without saying goodbye.

Bambi eyes him. “If you don’t have zipper burn, she’s off her game.”

“Baby boy, I’m not even wearing _jeans_ today, and I have zipper burn.” Wade pauses. “You jealous?”

“Envious, maybe.” Bambi sidles up to him, bumping against his shoulder. He drops his arm to his lap, casual as anything, almost brushing Wade’s leg on the way down. Wade's fingers twitch. He wants to hold Bambi's hand so bad it hurts.

“Well. Cherry’s something, anyway.”

“Yeah. She’s really cool. We’ve known each other for years.” Bambi sounds wistful. “We used to be really tight in high school.”

“Used to be?”

Bambi hikes his shoulders. “We kind of drifted out of touch. I was so surprised to run into her here! It’s been nice to catch up but… sometimes you can’t get what you had before, you know? I was kind of, uh, dealing with some shit. Back then. Kinda pushed everyone away.”

Wade gives him a sympathetic look. “I know a little bit about that.” There’s a long silence.

Bambi bites his lip. Opens his mouth, then closes it. “Why do you get dances from the girls, but not me?” His tone is carefully even, trying to play coy and casual.

Wade takes a deep breath. Oh boy. He considers joking, evading, but the near-death experience with Cherry must be bringing out the honesty in him. “Because they don’t scare me like you do,” he says quietly.

Bambi raises an eyebrow. “You expect me to believe I scare you more than Cherrybomb?”

Wade doesn’t stop looking at him. “Yeah, Bambi. Yeah you do.” Bambi eyes him for a moment, then breaks, staring down at his hands. There’s a very long silence.

“So…” Bambi finally says. “I’m trying this new pick-up technique where I make things really awkward, what do you think?”

“You’d better knock that shit off, Bambi, it’s working like a charm and you _know_ how much it sucks to get an erection with zipper burn.”

Bambi smiles to himself, busies his hands rearranging bills in his cute little stripper purse. Wade gasps. “Shit, is that a Captain America fanny pack?”

“Uh, it’s only official merch from the 1992 direct-to-video film.”

“Bambi, I did not think I could be any more in love. Wait. WAIT.” Bambi waits. “If this marriage is going to work I need to know… Who’s your favorite superhero? And spoilers, if it’s Iron Man, we’re through.”

“It’s Iron Man.”

_“Divorce.”_

“Okay, fine.” He gestures with the fanny pack. “Captain America, duh.”

“Good choice,” Wade says. “Cap has the best ass of the OG Avengers. The only super who has him beat is Spider-Man.” Bambi’s eyes widen and Wade hastens to reassure him. “Don’t worry, baby boy. You’ve got a better ass than either of them.”

Bambi huffs a surprised laugh. “That… is not correct, but thanks.” He looks thoughtful as he continues. “I don’t know. I was just a tiny nerdy kid with glasses and asthma. Steve Rogers was small and sick like me, but he still pushed back against bullies and he grew up to be an amazing hero.” Wade makes a mental note to find every person who bullied Bambi and shove some very pointy Captain America merch some place very uncomfortable (like the back of a Volkswagen). “I guess he just made me feel like someday I could be a hero, too.”

Wade’s heart grows three sizes, which is very painful. Enlarged hearts aren’t as romantic as they seem in the movies. As always, he covers his pain with humor. “Well, you got your wish. You got every hard dick in this place standing to attention, Cap.” Bambi elbows him, but he’s grinning.

“Your internship, your endgame job - does that make you feel like a hero?” Wade asks, not sure if he’s overstepping.

Bambi smiles again, and this time it’s a soft, private thing. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, some nights it does.” There’s another stretch of silence, but it’s easy, comfortable. Bambi eyes him. “My degree,” he finally says. “It’s science. Biochemistry.”

Wade beams. “Dang, baby boy! Brains _and_ beauty! What are you going to do with it?”

“I’m looking into grad schools for genetic engineering? And then I’d want to work in a lab somewhere. Do research that makes the world better.” Wade frowns a little. He’s not so sure about that - it conjures images of cages and pain. But Bamb’s enthusiasm is infectious as he rattles on about lab grown organ replacements, micro-plastic eating bacteria, experimental bespoke treatments for Ebola and cancer and HIV. Wade quickly becomes captivated despite himself. 

At one point Bambi stops, bashful. “You didn’t come here to hear me ramble, though.”

“I want to hear every single thought that goes through that amazing brain,” Wade says, resting his chin on his hand. “You’ll just have to dumb it down for me - at the Blowjob of Knowledge, I spit and you swallowed. Tell me more about… smart bandages? What makes them ‘smart’?”

Bambi explains more patiently than any teacher Wade can remember. He tries valiantly to keep up, asking relevant questions where he can, or for an explanation when Bambi inevitably loses him. He tries not to think about how good it would feel to see that face light up like that every day.

* * *

All good things must come to an end, and Bambi eventually sits up and looks around as the after-work crowd starts to trickle in. 

Wade tries to sneak a wad of bills under Bambi’s purse while his back is turned, but he looks up mid-sneak to see he's been busted. Curse Bambi and his sixth sense. “I’m not tipping you, I’m tipping Cap,” he explains, as he continues to shove cash under the fanny pack while maintaining eye contact in a feeble attempt at asserting dominance. “I figure if I tip Rogers enough, maybe someday he’ll let me give him a _real_ tip.”

He actually gets a laugh for that one. Well, okay. A lip quirk. Could have just been a facial tic. He’ll take it. Wade tilts his head. Something seems different today... “Not going to offer me a dance for the road?”

Bambi considers him, moves in slow and intentional, crowds all up into Wade’s space. He wraps his teeth around Wade’s shoulder with calculated purpose and _bites_ \- slow, careful, but hard enough that he feels it. Wade's lungs cease to function. He can feel warmth rolling off Bambi’s shimmery skin, can hear the creak of cotton under sharp teeth.

Wade falls back with a gasp as Bambi leisurely releases him. Murmurs, “Maybe next time.”

Then he’s stepping back, smiling gently as he dissolves into the lights and fog of the club.


	4. SpideyPool 2, Electric Boogaloo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know y'all came for sex but hope you're prepared for some fucking FEELINGS instead. Also it's a little bit of a shorty. To atone for the continued cockblocking, [ I've added a moodboard / titlecard to chapter one.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22610983/chapters/54038002) It's pretty, go check it out. Future-me will suffer tomorrow morning, but Tonight-me is pleased.
> 
> [Bambi's Bootylicious Mixtape,](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7yycn849v5iN2jViE1FC9s) if you want some mood music to start your day off right.

A few nights later, Wade is on a rooftop looking at his favorite view of his favorite city, sitting next to his favorite person in the world. Second favorite person? Oh man, feelings are confusing. Luckily, burgers after a thrilling night of crime fighting are not confusing.

Spider-Man visibly perks at the sight of the greasy bag. 

“Stop drooling, Sparky, or I’ll have no choice but to break into your home and restock your pantry. I swear, you don't feed yourself.”

Spidey looks a little sullen. “Man, I got super-metabolism. I’m always hungry.”

“I gotchu, boo.” He nudges Spidey’s shoulder with his. “Food is my love language.”

They both turn away a bit, comfortably side-by-side. It’s kinda freezing out, and Wade has the rare luxury of the long, lean press of Spidey’s side against his. Boy’s been doing his pilates. Nice.

Spidey shifts as he pushes his mask up to eat. Wade resists the urge to peek - he knows Spider-Man is all about that secret identity cloak-and-dagger. He _kinda_ lets Webs think that he’s the same way. Truth be told he doesn’t give a shit, but he doesn’t really feel like doing the face reveal trope today. He already knows he has pretty eyes, thank you very much.

From beside him, he hears a hesitant, “Deadpool... Do you have… friends?”

“Wow Spidey. I think you just hurt my feeling.”

Webs huffs like a mad cat. _Cuuuute._ “Well, since this whole line of questioning is related to my own lack of social skills that checks out.” He sighs. “I’ve just been thinking about it a lot, lately. It’s like I blinked and all my friends are gone - moved away, grew apart, whatever. And it’s such a cliche - ‘It’s hard to make friends as an adult - you have to put yourself out there.’ But I’m _Spider-Man._ I don’t have time to ‘put myself out there.’”  
  
Wade thinks about it. “I met most of my friends doing jobs. Don’t you hang with the Avengers?”

“They’re... cool. I mean, they’re super nice. But I’m always wearing the mask, always got my guard up in case someone tries to sneak a peek. And I’m always on my best behavior - what if I accidentally make a ‘yo momma’ joke in front of Captain America?! It’s like trying to make friends with Mount Rushmore!”

“Those dead white bros are stone cold, but I hear the Statue of Liberty is a good time gal, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, you can ask Johnny Storm about good times on top of Lady Liberty.” 

Clutches his chest, Wade gasps, “That is a _national monument._ She was a _gift_ to us from the _French_ to celebrate _freedom._ Not some shenanigan pad for superpowered delinquents!” Privately, he doesn’t think he’s ever been prouder of the little arachnid.

Spidey laughs. “I wonder what Johnny’s up to these days..." He sounds a little wistful. "Anyway, none of my ‘real-life’ people know about Spider-Man, either.” He pauses. “Wow. I don’t think there’s a single person in this entire world who knows all of me.”

Wade is slow to speak. “That’s pretty heavy, Webs. There’s really no one who knows both Superman and Clark Kent?” He feels a shift as Spidey shakes his head. “Is there someone you _want_ to tell?”

“No!” Spidey blurts out. “No. That... that can’t happen. It’s just, I think I’m making a friend at work? At my, uh, day job?”

Wade jerks up, and Spidey jumps. “Pause that - day job? Let me guess....... Accountant? Claims adjuster? I’m just imagining you in a cubicle farm. All button up, unfortunate tie, and the Spidey Mask.”

Spider-Man gives an inelegant and absolutely adorable snort. “Wow ‘Pool, I thought you promised to stop stalking me?”

“Well I wasn’t STALKING you, there was just a dangerous outbreak of vent alligators at your boringest of office buildings. I’m surprised you didn’t catch on, you’re getting slow.”

“Vent alligators.”

“Yup!”

“Alligators... who live in vents.”

“Did I stutter? How dare you question me when I straight up _saved your life._ ”

Spidey’s shoulders are shaking with laughter now, and Wade chances a glance down at his long, graceful fingers, twisting and shredding the burger wrapper.

"Anyway, we were discussing your new workspouse, who I can only assume is Janet from HR.”

“Well, you know, Janet from HR just has such an eye for that... synergy? And, um, spreadsheets?” He’s silent for a moment. When he finally speaks, Wade can barely make it out. “I guess it’s just hard to tell what’s real. Can you even make a real connection when you always have to lie?”

For once, Wade is struck speechless. This is his hero talking. The guy with all the answers. It's hard to hear him sound so lonely and unsure. He knows vigilante life can be isolating, but he always figured this was just one more way Spider-Man is better than him.

Spidey tentatively breaks the silence. “Are we friends, DP?” 

Wade sits up. Sighs. Pulls his mask down over his chin, deliberately slow, listening as Spidey picks up his cue and does the same. Turns toward him, mask to mask. “Spider-Man. You’re one of the best friends I have.” He hesitantly wraps an arm around slim shoulders.

Spidey's voice sounds a little wet, muffled through his mask. "I think… I think you're one my best friends, too. I guess that's the screwed up part - you're one of the closest people in my life and I'm not sure we even count as friends. How fucked is that?"

“We count. We're friends. Promise.” Wade squeezes Spidey’s shoulders a little tighter. “And you don’t have to share every part of yourself with someone to make a genuine connection. In this job - we gotta find our happiness where we can.”

He leans in close, masked mouth near masked ear. “And if Janet from HR shoots you down, I’d be willing to consider adding some benefits to our friendship. Just, uh, keep the mask on. That way you’ll match my favorite fleshlight.”

The next thing Wade knows, his shoulder is half out of its socket and he’s splayed on the rooftop. Spider-Man stands over him, mask tilted in an amused glare.

“I didn’t mean right now! But I am _so_ down. Lube’s in the second pouch to the right.”

Spidey shakes his head. “Thanks for the talk, DP. See you around.” He has one foot on the ledge before he turns back. “Really. Thanks.” And then he’s off into the night.

Well, damn. Wade’s gonna jerk off to those last three paragraphs for _years_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback keeps me going! Let me know your favorite lines so I can write more of them 😉 And gigantic thanks to the folks who keep coming back and commenting on every chapter - y'all are above and beyond.
> 
> Next chapter should be up soon-ish. It's basically done, but, no spoilers, it's one I want to makes sure I do right 😏😏😏🍆 So I will take a few days to really give it the editing attention it deserves.  
> 


	5. No One Goes to Hooters for Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s finally here. My precious baby has earned its "Explicit" rating.
> 
> I’d like to thank the Academy, my Hitachi Magic Wand, and Thesaurus.com.
> 
> [You're going to want some Champagne Room Mixtape for this one, fam.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7yycn849v5iN2jViE1FC9s)

Wade’s still thinking about his little emotional circle jerk with Spider-Man when he rocks into the club the next afternoon. On the one hand, if he lets himself get any closer to Bambi (for example, in a biblical sense), he's gonna get his heart broken into a million, billion teeny tiny little pieces. On the other hand… lapdance.

Honestly, if this whole thing's on an inevitable fast track to lonely-heartsville he may as well do it like he does everything else - with a bang. Except, like, not literally, because he respects Bambi’s boundary around acceptable levels of paid sexytimes.

Just gotta play it cool, Wilson.

Naturally, all his plans go out the window when Bambi saunters up to him dressed in body glitter, a cheeky grin, and a few brave scraps of fabric, valiantly losing the battle to protect what's left of Bambi's dignity.

He’s just off his stage set, loose and happy, high from the exertion and the attention. His hair is dark at the roots with sweat, and trashy little smudges of mascara blend with the shimmer on his cheeks. He got chafed up on the pole, and an angry red line curls around his side from his shoulderblade, dragging Wade's eyes across tight abs and down to the dip of one perfect hipbone.

He looks at Wade like he’s the best person in the entire world, and Wade knows right then and there that this is gonna fucking _hurt._ Bambi grins, a debauched and sloppy thing. “Hey there, handsome. You come here often?”

Wade’s mouth goes dry. “Please just literally marry me.” Oops. So much for playing it cool.

Bambi just smiles. “Lapdance first. I like to try before I buy.”

Wade thinks he may have a teeny, tiny brain aneurysm, because the next thing he knows… it’s happening.

The plywood walls in the dim back room of Sister Marg’s are painted dark purple, and Bambi deposits Wade on a peeling vinyl couch that’s seen better days. Really, the whole aesthetic is a depressingly on-brand metaphor for his sex life. Props to Weasel for that.

Bambi fiddles with the stereo while Wade grabs his wallet. “It’s $25 a song or 5 for -” he turns and eyes the wad of cash on the side table. Wade does his best approximation of an innocent expression. “...Or I just keep going until your dick falls off.”

“Bambi, if you think that’s when we stop, you don’t know me at all.”

The song switches over to something slow as Bambi pours into his lap. He can feel the thud of the bass in his bones, in his chest, in the base of his dick. And damn, Bambi’s a goddamn _professional._ Wade knew he was strong, and graceful, and stretchy as all hell. But having the whole situation pressed tight against his body is like drinking a Ruby Red Squirt after a lifetime of Fresca. He tilts his head against the back of the couch, squeezes his eyes shut. Speaking of squirting...

‘Think about baseball - nope, too sexy. Margaret Thatcher - dammit, also too sexy. Cable’s bionic dick - oh my god I’m really bad at thinking up not-sexy stuff.’

With his eyes shut and his mind occupied on keeping all his fluids in his body where they belong, he startles when Bambi’s cheek nuzzles against his, lips grazing his ear. “This okay?” Bambi murmurs. 

“Yes,” gasps Wade. “Anything... anything you want.”

Bambi chuckles, deep in his throat, breath hot on Wade’s neck as he almost... almost..... _almost_ mouths the scarred skin. “That’s a lot of consent. Somebody skipped negotiation 101.” He does a criminally sexy roll with his hips, and Wade thrusts up involuntarily, which makes Bambi jerk forward in turn, a shocked moan pulled from his throat. They look at each other, wide eyed and startled.

Bambi opens his mouth like he’s going to say something. Takes a breath, blinks a few times, slips back into his usual confident smirk.

Yup. We’re ignoring the Eiffel Tower shaped elephant(s) in the room. Wade pries his fingers from their death grip on the couch cushions and sits on his hands as Bambi gives them both a little space by sliding to the floor. He blinks, long, mascara-clumped lashes from between Wade’s legs.

Because _that’s_ the way to de-escalate this situation.

Bambi nuzzles at Wade’s stomach, breath coming hot and fast. It’s a position designed to evoke something very specific, and _fuck_ is it working. Bambi’s fingers clench and release into Wade’s thighs. His eyes are locked on Wade, pupils gigantic, the tip of his tongue barely dipping out to wet his lip. “God, I want - “ he gasps. 

Wade Wilson is a strong man, but 'Impulse Control' is not his middle name, and there’s a damn good reason for that. (The reason is that he had it legally changed to 'Danger' a few years back, but does anybody ever bother to remember that? Nope.) His traitorous hand sneaks out from under his thigh of its own accord, and gently strokes the barest caress down Bambi’s cheek, back to comb through his hair and cradle the back of his head. Bambi’s eyes drop in pleasure, his mouth goes slack, he whines, “Wade -” and

And suddenly Bambi is jerking back, pressing himself into the corner of the far end of the couch. He’s breathing hard, head tipped back, staring hard at the ceiling, jaw clenched. Fuck. Wade fucked this up.

“I fucked this up,” Wade says.

Bambi’s head swings towards him, cheeks flushed. He gropes for the side table, thrusts hands full of cash towards Wade. “You need to take this back. Right now.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuckity-fuck, fuck, _fuck._ “Keep it, you deserve it. I know better. I - fuck, I’m sorry.” He goes to stand, and Bambi’s free hand clamps on his thigh, pressing him abruptly back down. He keeps forgetting how _strong_ Bambi is for being so tiny.

“You’re not hearing me here, Wade.” Bambi’s eyes are wide and manic. He speaks slowly, decisively. “I don’t. fuck. for money. So you need to take your money back. right. now.” He’s still holding out the cash, a crisp green barricade between them.

Yeah, Wade _knows_ _,_ he promised himself he wouldn’t push Bambi’s boundaries and - wait.

What?

oh.

OH.

Wade has played hacky-sac with hand grenades, but he reaches for the bills with meticulous care. Time seems to freeze as the tip of his pinky grazes the edge of Bambi’s hand. He gently pulls back, Bambi’s hand releases and -

And Bambi is _on_ him, long legs everywhere, pressing him hard back into the couch, and Wade is throwing the cash god knows where (consider it Dopinder’s Christmas bonus (because Dopinder cleans the VIP rooms in this fic, get it? (oh my god stop thinking about Dopinder when Bambi is practically sitting on your cock))) and Bambi is hard against his stomach and he’s frantically whispering, “can I kiss you? please, can I kiss you? pleasepleaseplease,” and his mouth, god, his MOUTH, it’s so hot and wet and everywhere and if anything can manage to kill Wade for good it’ll be Bambi’s goddamn mouth.

And somewhere in there Bambi loses his g-string and he’s just wearing this strappy chest harness concoction and Wade’s fingers are tangled in the straps and brushing his nipples and pressing into hot, pole-burned skin and Bambi keens into Wade’s mouth and grips his pecs hard enough to hurt.

Bambi gasps. Takes a breath. Sits up a little. Moves Wade’s hands firmly down to his waist. He looks absolutely ruined, dazed and beautiful. “Okay. Okay. This is really happening.” His cock is hard between their bodies, flushed and pink, leaking at the tip. Wade wants that gorgeous dick to plunder every single orifice in his body.

He traces his fingers down Wade’s shirt, plays at the hem. Must see the tiny flinch in Wade’s face because he murmurs “It’s okay, you can keep it on, I just want at your skin.” And Wade’s about to make a joke about how even Buffalo Bill doesn’t want that, but then Bambi’s hands are on him and god, that’s just really fucking nice.

He doesn’t even care if the kid’s hustling him. He’d give half his overseas bank accounts just to keep those hands up his shirt and those sharp puppy teeth on his neck.

Fingers are dipping into his waistband, fiddling with the button on his fly. “Is this okay?”

“Anything, Bambi. Anything you want.”

“I want you to call me Peter.” Bambi - no, _Peter’s_ eyes crinkle in a smile, and even as Wade is rolling the name over his tongue, Peter’s got his fly open and is pulling his cock out and _fuck_ his hand feels so good.

Peter make eye contact and then -

He _licks_ his hand, slow and sloppy and wet. Wade whimpers.

And then it’s tight and slick on his cock and he’s shouting, “fuck, Petey, Bambi, shit, _fuck,”_ and okay, it’s not his most eloquent moment, but luckily baby boy is on the same wavelength as he presses back.

“God, fuck, Wade, you feel so good, ohmygod, _please.”_ Peter’s eyes squeeze shut as he rocks his hips. He grasps Wade’s wrist and paws it towards their laps, trying clumsily to push Wade’s fingers around his cock. “Please I need you to touch me, please, _please,”_ and Wade finally gets with the fucking picture and wraps his hand around it with a firm grip and Peter’s still begging, nonsense spilling out of his mouth with every pull, and it’s got to be the hottest thing he’s ever heard. 

He reaches up to Peter’s mouth, presses the pads of his fingers against those gorgeous lips. Peter opens up, still somehow managing to mutter “fuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK” around his fingers as Wade slides them in, touching the roof of his mouth and the side of his teeth, pressing out the satin skin of his cheek, just because it’s there and he can. He slides them hard across Peter’s tongue, and he’s just praying he can keep from fucking this whole thing up until he’s had his dick in there at least once.

Peter grabs his wrist, manhandles him until Wade’s wet fingers are curled around the curve of the most perfect asscheek in the history of civilization. Wade gasps, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Peter is flushed and sweating. “Yeah, just a little bit, yesyesyes just like that, that’s so good,” as Wade circles his asshole, spit making for an easy slide, thinking gentle thoughts, getting everything nice and relaxed and sensitive. With the way the muscles are already loosening around the tips of his fingers, he can’t stop thinking about getting all up in that sweet little hole, working it open with his tongue, his cock, his fist - hell, everything around the house that’ll possibly fit.

“Are you thinking about fucking me?” gasps Peter, reading his mind. His hips are shuddering, rocking minutely between Wade’s tight fist and his probing fingertips. “Thinking about opening me up, picking me up, setting me on your cock right here?” Wade nods, dazed. Peter grins, all teeth. “Yeah, no, you don’t get to fuck me like that.”

Wade groans, low in his belly, and his head slams back so hard he sees stars.

He whispers, “There’s no sex in the champagne room?” (They said it! They said the name of the movie in the movie!)

Peter pants out a breathless laugh. “What’s happening right now is sex in the champagne room. And... oh, fuck, yeah, there... Hooters wings are honestly dope.” Has Wade mentioned how in love he is? “But no, you don’t get to fuck me here. You’re gonna take me on a date, somewhere fancy. Treat me right. Wine and dine me and say nice things and give me a sweet kiss goodnight.”

He leans closer, whispers, “And then I’m gonna invite you up and you’re gonna hold me down and fuck me till I cry.”

The image is so vivid Wade can practically taste the sweat on the back of Petey's neck - feel the tight, shaking clench around his cock, the fine bones in delicate wrists under his big, strong hands. Imagines fucking him hot and deep and slow, for hours, until he's limp and stupid, until the whimpers of "please, don't" and "please don't stop" blend together.

Wade groans and his hand clenches, fingers pushing at Peter’s asshole, making him gasp and swear, sinful mouth is still going mile a minute. “I bet _you’d_ let me fuck you in here, though, wouldn’t you?” 

Wade’s cock is throbbing now. He’s shaking and losing his rhythm on Peter as he nods frantically, “Yeah, yes, anything, _Petey.”_

“You’d let me bend you over the dirty strip club couch? Push your face into the cushions?” Wade’s lungs are burning and his abs are clenched and he’s close, so fucking close. Peter hisses, “We’d have to be fast and we’d have to be quiet. I’d make you put your hand over your mouth while I open you up too fast and too rough and work my cock in. And then I’d fuck you hard, until you were screaming, until _everyone_ knew what was happening to you, until you were so worked up that you could come just on my cock. Do you wanna come like that for me?”

“Yeah,” gasps Wade and Peter’s hand is going faster, starting to get sticky and pull on the skin a little, just on the right side of too much friction. His hand is up Wade’s shirt, fingers clenching deep in the muscle, pinning him down. Peter is more dense than he has any right to be, and he wants wants _wants_ to be bent over this disgusting couch with Peter heavy across his back, hand tight on the back of his neck. “Yeah, please, I want it, want you to fuck me, want you to hold me down and make me come, PLEASE.”

"Yeah baby, do it, c’mon, come for me Wade, come, _now,_ _”_ and Wade’s shouting and spilling over Peter’s hand and onto his belly and his shirt and god, he’s too perfect, gentling in increments, making Wade’s orgasm ring through him, lasting until it’s thisclosetotoomuch and Peter’s hand finally stills, cradling his cock.

“Fuck,” he says. “Baby, _fuck.”_

Petey presses in sweetly, settles his open mouth into the crook of his neck, presses tender kisses up his throat and down to his collarbone while Wade’s brain slowly comes back online. They stay there, breathing together, for a long minute.

Wade's fingers twitch, still loose around Peter’s cock. His other hand is heavy on the sweet curve of a hip, and uh oh, he hopes Bambi doesn’t have any more stage sets today, because that bruise can’t be mistaken for anything other than a handprint. He huffs, frustrated, trying to get his lazy fingers to operate so he can ruin Peter right back.

Peter smiles, glowing above him. Cups his hand around the back of Wade’s head, pressing their foreheads together. “Fuck, you’re hot. You’re so, so good, you did so good. You just lie there and look pretty for me, I got you.” Fingers brush his, and Pete’s pushing them aside to grip his own dick, brushing his knuckles against Wade’s softening cock and making him twitch with every stroke.

“Yeah Petey?” whispers Wade, as the world slowly starts to coalesce around him and he finds two brain cells to rub together. “You thinking about fucking me rough and filthy?” Peter hums an agreement. “Or are you thinking about my tongue up your ass, opening you up, working you over for hours until you’re wrung out and begging for me?”

Peter gasps a tiny “yeah,” hand moving faster. 

He takes Peter’s chin in a firm grip, slides a thumb over his mouth. He’s not pressing hard but Petey is so easy for it, letting the weight of Wade’s thumb hold his mouth closed, taking fast, shallow breaths in through his nose. He clenches the new bruise on Peter’s hip as he bullies his thumb into that wet, hot mouth.

“You think I need my cock to make you cry?” Wade asks, brushing the spit-wet digit ever-so-gently against a stiff nipple. Peter whimpers. He’s barely breathing now. “Baby boy, I’ll take you apart with my pinky finger. You want that, kitten? Yeah, of course you do. I know exactly what to do with boys like you. You're gonna fucking beg for it.” 

Wade slides his broad hand down Peter’s side, across a slim hipbone, presses firm and threatening against that tiny, delicate asshole. “You’re gonna look so fucking pretty with tears on your cheeks and my come all over your face.”

Two more pulls on his cock and Petey pulls in a giant gasp, lets it out high and breathy and helpless, and his hips stutter and he’s coming all over Wade’s spent cock and his stomach and holy shit his face is the best thing Wade’s ever seen.

Peter leans against him, hot breaths hitting Wade’s lips. “Holy crap,” he whispers, awestruck. Wade huffs a laugh, pulls his face in, kisses him rough and filthy. Peter sits up slowly, gingerly. Says “holy _crap”_ again. Runs an idle finger through the absolute disaster pooling on Wade’s stomach, then pops his finger into his mouth and fucking _winks_ at Wade.

“Pete,” says Wade, face serious. “Petey-pie, Bambi-babe, sugar-tits. That mouth of yours is going to literally murder me, and I don’t think you actually understand how hard that is to do.” Petey tilts his head, but laughs and boops Wade’s nose with his sticky finger. “That’s gross. And I’m not kidding. I’m mentally composing my will as we speak.”

Peter smiles, languid, having apparently fucked all the sass right out of himself. Wade grins at him, feeling inordinately smug. He tilts his head. “So... I don’t want to make this weird or anything... And I think we both agree that nothing said during sex is legally binding, but... “ he scrunches his eyes shut, trying to figure out the right words. Fuck. He's gonna make this weird. His mouth really could have done him a solid and let him script this out before it took off without him.

There’s a gentle poke to his forehead, and Wade carefully cracks his eyes open. “We should definitely go on a date,” Peter says, regarding him with soft amusement. “That’s what you were going to ask, right? Although if you were going to ask about any of the other things we said, the answer is also hell yeah.” His eyes flick to the side, and his forehead creases a little. “I really hope that’s what you were about to ask, otherwise this gets real awkward real fast and then I have to, like, flee the country in embarrassment.” Wade’s brain has kind of stopped working but he apparently manages to nod, because Peter grins brightly and gives a little bounce on his lap that is probably illegal in thirty seven states. “So when are you free?”

“Now!” ejaculates Wade (nice). “Now’s good! I’ll take you out. Do you like Mexican? Hell, who doesn’t. Then we can hit up a liquor store, stuff our pockets full of airline bottles and go mini golfing. Sound like your idea of a good time?” He gives his most charming smile. Peter laughs in delight, then ruefully shakes his head.

“Tonight’s no good. I gotta finish my shift, and then I got homework. But soon? Please?”

Wade whines. “Tell Weasel it’s an emergency. A family emergency. And by ‘family’ you mean ‘your pants.’” What? That doesn’t even make sense.

Just as Pete opens his mouth (presumably to state that that doesn’t even make sense), they're interrupted by a quiet but insistent trilling. Peter’s eye twitches a little. “Seriously? Seriously, _now?_ _”_ Wade would have figured Bambi for a Queen Bey ringtone, or maybe lofi beats (the good one with the cat in the window), but nothing wrong with kickin’ it old school. 

The phone gives zero shits about their "Kiss the Girl" moment, and continues to ring, volume increasing. Peter sighs, presses a quick, hard kiss to Wade’s mouth, and swings off his lap. He freezes as he grabs his purse, swearing at the splooge smoothie on his hand. He scrubs ineffectively at his bare thigh, glares at his fingers, then shrugs and pulls out a surprisingly nice StarkPhone.

“This is seriously the worst timing ever. Well, second worst. Worst would have been five minutes ago. Anyway, point is, you’re the actual worst.” Wade can’t hear the voice on the other end, but the half-scrunched face Peter pulls tells him all he needs to know about his opinion of the other half of the conversation. “No, I know there’s never a _good_ time for… Fine. Uh huh. Yeah, no, I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

He hangs up, looks at Wade, pouty. Then his face softens as he _looks_ and god, if he’s thinks he’s going to leave he needs to stop looking at Wade like that.

“Emergency in your pants?” Wade asks, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. He doesn’t do a great job, if Peter’s face is anything to go by. Or maybe, just maybe, Peter is just as disappointed to cut things short.

“Dude, I wish. Shit with my internship.” Peter runs his fingers through his hair, then looks in horror at his tacky fingers. “Welp. That happened. Anyway. Yeah, I have a deal with Weasel in case I get called in. So, uh…”

He scuffs his toe against the floor, looks back up. “Yeah, if I don’t leave this room right this second, I’m not going to be able to leave at all. Raincheck on that date. Seriously.” He’s grabbing his discarded things and pulling on a robe. He kisses the top of Wade’s head as he passes, then leans in for a kiss on the lips, then kisses him harder, then -

“Shit, no, you gotta stop being so sexy, I need to LEAVE.” Flushed and wide-eyed, Peter backs out of the room, takes one step back in, mutters, _“fuck,”_ steps back out. Huffs out, “Call me!” and then Wade can hear him literally sprinting down the hallway.

Wow. So. _That_ happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, “I don’t fuck for money, so I need you to take your money back right now [so we can fuck].” was definitely the very first line I wrote for this fic. Hooray! We did it!
> 
> Because I couldn’t figure out a delicate way to be explicit about it in the fic - Peter has nothing against dancers who do extras. Full-service sex work isn’t for everyone, and it’s totally possible to have healthy personal boundaries while fully supporting your fellow professionals :-) /soapbox
> 
> Please let me know what you think! 😍⚔️💦🐔🤔🤷  
> 


	6. A Wild POV Shift Appears!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so happy I finally get to post this chapter! It was one of the first scenes I fleshed out, and I am overjoyed to get to share its ridiculousness with you all. (spoilers: those two dummies are perfect for each other).
> 
> Don't forget to [hit up dat mixtape!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7yycn849v5iN2jViE1FC9s)

Wade sits in the VIP room for a few more minutes, brain utter mush.

Did he just fuck his favorite stripper in the world, who is probably also his favorite person in the world? (Sorry Spidey, silver’s not bad.)

“There is _totally_ sex in the champagne room,” he whispers in awe.

And did his favorite person in the world agree to go on a date, and then run off for a literal Science Emergency?

“Swoon,” he gasps.

His jerk-brain kicks in for a second and reminds him that he doesn’t have Peter’s phone number. Call him for that date... hmm... Honestly this whole thing is so improbable that he’s probably dead in an alley somewhere, regenerating synapses sparkling into this wet dream of an afternoon.

Wade shakes his head rapid fire, pops himself in the face, once, hard. Good ole brain reboot, turn it off and turn it back on again. He’s definitely not dead, and Peter had been in a hurry, and they’ll catch each other later. 

He nods decisively. “We had a nice time, we’re going to go on a nice date, we’ll see where it goes, and I am definitely _not_ already picking out the colors for the wedding.”

Dark blue and bronze, obviously, to bring out the color of their eyes. And also Ravenclaw pride for his sexy little genius.

He makes a face at the mess on his own shirt, rubs ineffectively at it, then shrugs. Stride of Pride, baby. At least he smells nice - stripper perfume is the _best._

At the bar, Weasel looks more frazzled than usual. “Wade! Have you seen the - wait. Why the hell do you look like a bukkake porno knocked up a snuff film and they birthed the kid on livestream? Not in my club, man! You’re paying for that upholstery cleaning. Anyway, you asshole faced asshole, have you seen the news?”

Wade freezes mid-snark as he lifts his eyes to the TV above the bar. “Ooh! Doombots! Yay!”

* * *

“Aw, Doombots, no,” moans Hawkeye, notching another exploding arrow as Spider-Man swings onto the scene.

Peter feels gross as hell, if he’s being honest. He rushed out of the club too fast for a shower, and not only is he going to be sticky, he's going to have some phenomenally awkward chafing. He really, really, _really_ hopes none of the Avengers notice that he smells like _eau de bambi._ His stomach twists a little as he replays "Spider-Man's Nightmares Greatest Hits: #43," aka the sheer magnitude of the Captain America Is Disappointed In You face if Cap ever finds out his teammate takes his clothes off for money. Okay, wow, let’s just repress that one back to midnight insomnia where it belongs and focus on what’s important.

Like the fact that the glitter is never coming out of this spandex. Crap. Oh well. Super, duper, ridiculously worth it! He would never in a million years have expected a snap decision to hook up with a customer to end with plans to go on a date with one of the coolest, nicest people he's ever met. And the sex was so hot and he managed to keep his awkward freakouts to a minimum and maybe if he’s very lucky, it might all happen again?

Ohmigosh, he didn't use stripper magic to pressure Wade into a date, did he? He sure hopes not, because he'd feel like a supremely pushy douchebag and also, like, if he was just the “exotic dancer” square on Wade’s sexy bingo card his heart will break into a million pieces and he'll have to make it Facebook official with Ben and also Jerry.

No. No way. Wade is super into him, he’s sure. For once in his life, the Parker Luck isn't fucking him over. _There’s time,_ says the little voice in the back of his head, but fuck that jerk, nobody likes him. Instead, he thinks about Wade’s giant hands and broad shoulders, and how Wade could probably just pick him up and carry him around, and maybe next time Wade will take his shirt off and let Peter slide his dick along the groove of those _amazing_ abs, and -

A tiny robot comes flying out of nowhere and smacks him in the face. Rude.

“Why is it always Doombots?” he moans, as he webs two bots to each other and slingshots them right into a blast from Iron Man’s lasers.

“Lazy writing from MCU fans who are too boring to read the comics but want to seem like they’re one of the cool kids!” A familiar voice yells up from the street and for a second Peter’s wires get crossed but no - it’s just Deadpool, cutting a striking figure among the sea of Doombots. Literally. He’s hacking a swathe through the silver swarm, looking for all the world like he’s frolicking through a field of daisies.

Deadpool calls up, “I think I see the McGuffinBot there yonder - fancy giving me a lift?” Peter swings down and lets the merc scramble onto his back. “How’s it hanging, Spider-babe? Or is it swinging? Thwipping? How’s it thwipping?”

Peter needs to interrupt this line of thinking before he has a grammar-induced existential crisis. “Actually, not bad. I was having a really nice afternoon at work, and now I get to smash up some Doombots.”

“OMG samesies! I was also having a great afternoon, and I’m also happy about Doombots! See, this is why we’re soulmates!” There’s a thoughtful pause. “Although my definition of a great afternoon and yours may be sliiiiightly different, unless you and Janet from HR have taken the next step in your work marriage.”

Peter narrows his eyes. Does that mean what he thinks it means? He hones in his senses. Is that a whiff of - ?

He freezes, which is inconvenient mid-swing. Luckily his reflexes kick in and he shoots off the next web just in time to give them a roller coaster thrill of a dip. Deadpool shrieks in glee, clutching to his back like a 200 pound baby possum. Whispers, “How does the best day ever just keep getting better?”

Why the hell does Deadpool smell like a gang bang in an apple orchard?

“Deadpool,” he asks slowly. “Why the hell do you smell like a gang bang in an apple orchard?”

Deadpool winks. Peter knows, because he audibly says “Wink.” Followed by, “Schnookums, if you wanted on my Orchard Orgy E-vite list you only had to ask!”

Spider-Man gives his head a firm shake. “Nope. We’re just... not dealing with this right now. This is a Later Thing to deal with.”

“Aw, talking to yourself, baby boy? I’d say I’m rubbing off on you, but I haven’t had the pleasure!”

Rubbing off? Baby boy?? Spidey chokes out a startled laugh. This is... this is not happening. He spots the McGuffinBot below, grabs Deadpool, and flings him bodily toward the bot. “Rubbing off? Are we not doing phrasing anymore?”

“Danger Zooooooooooooooooone,” fades ‘Pool’s voice, as he yanks his katanas out mid-air and does an admittedly sweet flip towards the oversized Doombot. As Spidey swings away, he swears he hears a faint “superhero landing!” followed by a muffled crunch.

* * *

Several hundred bashed up Doombots and one sorta saved street later, Peter is convinced he’s letting his anxiety get away with him. There’s no way that Deadpool is _Wade._ Sweet, funny Wade? Although Deadpool is funny. And can be kinda sweet. He’s just... also kind of stabby. Anyway, Deadpool isn’t all scarred up. Peter’s sure he would have noticed. Well, pretty sure. He tries to think of a single time he’s seen DP’s skin during their nighttime adventures. Now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t even know if the merc is white. Huh. Check your assumptions, Parker.

He’s getting off track. There’s no way they’re the same person. So Deadpool smelled like sex and cheap body spray. Deadpool could have been fucking anyone. It’s not like he and Wade have the market cornered on afternoon delight. And half the strippers in the city probably have a bottle of Bath and Body Works’ “Country Apple Fine Fragrance Mist.”

A heavy hand lands on his shoulder and he startles, and then he’s stuck to a lamppost, looking down at a very confused Iron Man and a handful of Avengers. Accidental upside-down time has got to be one of the more embarrassing parts of being Spider-Man.

“You good, Spider-Man? We’re heading back to the tower for dinner and debrief.”

“Thanks Tony, but, uh, Deadpool and I actually had plans.” He hops down next to the merc.

Deadpool perks up. “What plans?”

“Yeah, remember, our plans? To, uh...” C’mon Spider-Man. Think faster.

Deadpool’s eyes widen. “Oooooh. Riiiiight! Our plans to be literally anywhere that’s not here.” Peter facepalms. Stark sighs heavily.

“We need you back for debrief, Spider-Man. I know you don’t like it. No one likes it.”

“Oh no, I love debrief! They should have called me Debrief-Man, it’s like I was bitten by a radioactive piece of paperwork.” He grabs Deadpool by the shoulder, really hoping the merc will cooperate. “We’ve just got our very important, definitely not fake, plans -” and he’s swinging away, DP thankfully hanging on. Iron Man is turning as red as his suit as Peter shouts, “We’ll swing by tomorrow, we swear!”

“SPIDER-MAN.”

“Pinky promise!” Deadpool shouts over his shoulder, then snickers. “Joke’s on him. Pinky promise doesn’t count if you don’t link pinkies.”

Peter is silent as he swings them through the streets. Luckily, Deadpool seems happy to hold up both ends of the conversation with Liza Minelli facts and observations about cool birds he spots. At least the fight wasn't too far from a very specific fire escape. He sets them both down and shakes his head, trying to get his thoughts in order.

“Well, as fun as this has been, are you going to tell me what’s got your delicate spider lace panties all in a bunch?”

Peter swallows hard. “Okay, so... here’s the thing. I think maybe I met you? Somewhere else? And I’d really, really like to know for sure, but if I’m wrong it’ll be really awkward so I’m not sure how to do this.”

“Let me guess - Are you that cute-but-painfully-shy barista at the library coffee stand? Wait, no, that can’t be, I don’t know how to read.” As Peter opens his mouth to refute that statement, Deadpool barrels on. “No wait! You’re the owner of my favorite bodega, you know, that one with the orange tabby who always uses me as a scratching post!”

“What?! No!”

“Okay, but what about -”  
  
_“Deadpool._ What if, um, we exchange first names? And if we’ve met, that would be really cool. And if we haven’t, well, we’re friends, right? Friends should know each other’s names.” His chest is tight and he feels a little dizzy. He can’t believe he’s offering up his street name for the second time today.

Deadpool tilts his head, considering. His voice comes out softer than Peter expected. “Spidey. I know how careful you are about your identity.” Peter opens his mouth, closes it. “How about this? I’ll tell you my name, you let me know if we’ve met or not, and you can tell me your name when you’re ready.”

Peter looks down. “But that’s not -”

“Fair? Telling you my name is no big deal to me, telling me yours is making you anxious as fuck. Feels pretty fair to me. I’m Wade Wilson, nice to meet ya.”

Peter gapes for several long seconds. DP (Wade???) leans in, raccoon eye patches growing alarmingly large in Peter’s field of vision. “Wait, no, I got it… I run a tattoo parlor and you run a flower shop, but what we don’t know is that we’re both part of the same antifa collective!”

Yanking the nearest window open, Peter grabs Deadpool by his katana harness and heaves him through. The merc bounces off the edge of the shitty futon and wheezes from the floor. “Breaking and entering, Spidey? I’m a bad influence on you!”

He pounces, legs on either side of Wade’s broad thighs, hand pressed to his chest. “This is my apartment, dumbass.” And he’s lifting the bottom of the Deadpool mask and wow, how has he never notice his skin before now? And Wade is babbling something about a Spider Cave, and Peter’s mouth is cutting him off, and then he feels Wade’s hands pressing hard against his shoulders.

“Hey, Webs, slow down a sec. If you had done that a week ago I would have been over the moon. But I just started seeing someone I’m pretty shiny about? Or at least, we kind of have a date? A sort of date. Maybe. So I’m gonna have to rip my own heart out and turn you down, at least until I figure out where that’s going.”

Peter sits up abruptly, crosses his arms, considers Wade. “You ‘kind of’ have a ‘sort of’ date,” he repeats flatly. Wade’s white mask eyes blink innocently at him. Peter huffs, pulls his mask the rest of the way off his head, and slingshots it expertly at Wade’s face. “You don’t _‘kind of’_ have a date, dumbshit, you _definitely_ have a date. Unless you’re standing me up already?”

Wade’s hands come up, brushes away the Spidey mask, pulls his own mask the rest of the way off. He blinks again.

“Okay well, you definitely learned that slingshot trick with a g-string. And I’m not standing you up. You,” he punctuates with a firm shake of a finger, “are the one who ran off _._ ”

Unbelievable. “You don’t get to call me out for running off when I get called in on an Avengers Assemble level emergency two minutes after you squeeze my brain out of my dick!”

They stare at each other for a long moment, then Wade wavers “...Bambi?”

He smiles shakily back. “It’s Peter, remember?” He takes a deep breath, brain desperately trying to catch up with the last five minutes.

“Uh, Petey... silly question but... are you crying?”

Peter chest gives an embarrassing hitch and he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. “I’m not crying, you’re crying.”

“I mean, yeah, I’m crying on the inside. Basically all the time. Seriously, you okay though? I’m erect and you’re crying, if I could remember my senior prom I'd be having flashbacks.”

“Yeah, I’m just... I blew my secret identity twice today and then I found out that my two favorite people are the same person and it’s all just kind of a lot.”

Wade beams up at him. “Yeah, it’s... yeah, it’s a lot.” His smile drops a little. “Spidey - Pete, I’m - I’m kind of bad news. Are you sure about this?”

“I don’t know. This is kind of terrifying. I’m a fucking mess. I have intimacy issues like crazy and I have no friends and everyone I love dies.”

“I can’t die for good, but I’m probably going to die in front of you a lot.”

“I’m reckless with my own safety to the point of self-harm.”

“I used to kill people for money.”

Peter blinks. “Used to?”

“Ish?”

Peter hiccups, leaning closer. “I’m not quitting my job.”

“I don’t have a monogamous bone in my body.”

“I’m a Leo and you’re a Scorpio.”

“I’m more than half in love with you already,” Wade admits, pushed up on his elbows.

They stare at each other, noses almost touching.

Peter whispers, “This is going to hurt, isn’t it?”

He feels more than hears Wade’s response against his lips. “Only if we do it right.”

* * *

“Hey, Petey?”

“Mmhmm?”

“Does this count as a romantic date?”

Peter considers. “Well, we had feelings talk. And we had kissing. So the only thing left is for you to buy me dinner.”

“So… if I order you a pizza, I can hold you down and fuck you till you cry?”

There’s a _thunk_ as Wade’s head and upper back hit the floor under the weight of 160 pounds of sweet, nubile Spider-Boyfriend.

Pizza doesn’t get ordered for a very, very long time.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I haven't done any creative writing in a very long time (college, maybe??), and everyone's comments and support kept me going <3 <3 <3 Let me know what you think - of the grand reveal, this silly little fic as a whole, whatever spoke to you. This includes all y'all future peeps - if commenting on a fic from years ago is weird, I don't want to be right. 
> 
> I have some notes sketched out for a Sexilogue, but I also have some other works that are calling my name. Regardless, subscribe or bookmark or whatever it is y'all do, and maybe you'll get a nice surprise when I come back to this.  
> 


End file.
